


Crawler

by ClaireScott



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Disabled Character, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You go for a late walk and get robbed. The Sons find you on the sidewalk and Juice decides to be helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the road

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes. As ever.

Friday evening, 10 p.m. What a great time to sit nearly helpless on a sidewalk, what a great time to crawl two blocks down the road. What a great time to be alive. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  
The three thugs who robbed you nearly an hour ago proved a great sense of humor when they not only took the 23 Dollars and the cell phone you carried with you, but also your crutches. Great. As the street is absolutely dead for the last hour you willy-nilly have to crawl homewards. The idea of an evening walk was the worst one in the last five years. Fuck you, summer of California. You start crawling, cursing all along the way, knowing your hands and legs will be bloody nearly to the bone by the time you arrive home. After about five minutes crawling through the dirt, you hear the sounds of motorbikes behind you. You sit up, watching in the direction the growl of the engines come from. You count eight bikes and a black van following them. The bikers drive by without even looking at the sidewalk, but the driver of the van sees you, maybe because of his higher position. He hits the brakes and honks. The van stops, and also the bikes come to a stop, the first ones turning around and driving back. The driver of the van jumps out and you recognize Kip, a former schoolmate.  
“Hey!” He greets. “Is that you, Y/N?”  
“Yeah. Hi, Kip. Nice to meet you.” The understatement of the century, really.  
“Yeah. Why are you crawling over the sidewalk? You hurt?”  
Now nine men surrounding you, eight pairs of black boots, one pair of white sneakers.  
“Who’s that, Half-Sack?” An older man asks and Kips answers: “It’s a former schoolmate, Y/N. She’s crawling over the sidewalk. I guess she needs help.”  
“What happened?” One of the men asks, he’s bald and looks really scary.  
“Three guys robbed me about an hour ago.”  
“Did they hurt you?” A guy with a short mohawk wants to know, reaching out for you.  
“No. But they stole my ... my crutches and I can’t walk without them.”  
You see all the men shaking their heads, cursing silently.  
“Jesus Christ,” Kip says, “What happened? Why do you need crutches? Last time I saw you, you didn’t need medical aids.”  
“It was a car accident. Five years ago. I just wanted to catch some fresh air and ... yeah. Here I am, sitting on a goddamn sidewalk like a beached whale.”  
“Oh, shit,” Kip says, rubbing over his hair.  
“Come on, I’ll help you,” the guy with the mohawk says.  
He gives you an encouraging smile, now reaching out for you with both hands.  
“Half-Sack, Juice – you’ll bring her home. We’ll see you later at the clubhouse,” the man with the “President”-patch on his vest says, going back to the bikes.  
Kip and the guy with the mohawk – Juice – are both nodding and help you standing up. They escort you to the van and Juice helps you getting inside on the passenger’s seat. Kip drives two blocks down the road, followed by Juice on his bike as you can see in the outside mirror.  
“You good?” Kip asks and you nod: “Yeah, thank you. I just need two new crutches and I’m on the road again.”  
He scoffs, shaking his head.  
“You can stop, Kip. Thank you. My apartment’s right here.” You say, pointing at the house on the right.  
Less than two minutes to drive. Half a lifetime to crawl.  
“Thank you for stopping and driving me home.”  
“No prob, Y/N.” Kip gives you a smile and hops out of the van.  
The passenger door opens and you see Juice standing outside, reaching out for you, again.  
“Do you have some extra crutches in your apartment?” He asks and you shake your head: “No. I need to buy a new pair.”  
He lifts you carefully out of the van, making sure you’re standing safely before offering you his right arm.  
“How do you come into town?”  
You give a shrug: “Wheelchair. That’s my only option. I don’t have a car.”  
“That’s a lot of fun on a hot August day, right?” He asks and you nod, sighing.  
You cling on his arm as you walk slowly to the door of your apartment. He’s rock steady, not even flinching when you lean into him with your full weight in the moments you move your good leg forward.  
“You’re in pain, right?”  
“A bit. But it’s okay, I’m used to it. I can never walk without pain.”  
“Sorry to hear this, really. Uhm, do we need to break in or do you still have your key?”  
“I have it. Thank you, Juice.”  
You fish in your jeans pocket for the key and he takes it out of your hand once you found it.  
“I’ll open, you’ll hold on to me, okay?”  
“Okay,” you answer through gritted teeth, trying to breathe the pain in your leg away.  
“I’ve got this, Half-Sack. Drive back, I’ll follow in a few minutes.”  
“Juice, give her my number, too, when you give her yours. Call, when you need help, Y/N.”  
“Okay. Thank you, Kip, really.”  
He waves and hops back in the van, while Juice opens the door.  
“So, speaking of the new crutches and the upcoming wheelchair tour to town at forecasted 100 degrees – what about me giving you a lift to town tomorrow? I’ll take you wherever you want and ...”  
“That’s really, really nice, Juice, and a very generous offer, but I ... first, I don’t know you and I don’t want to bother you with my shit. Second, I don’t think I’m able to sit on a bike.”  
“Yeah, I’ll come by car. More room for your shopping. So, listen, that’s the plan, okay? I’ll come by at ten sharp, we’ll drive into town, buying crutches, having breakfast or some coffee and I’ll drive you home again. Or, if you want, to a supermarket. When we’re on the road by car we may use this opportunity.”  
Juice leads you to your little living room, helping you sit down on the couch.  
“Thanks, really, but ... I don’t want to bother you.”  
“You don’t bother. You need some help, I’ll offer help. If it makes you feel better you can pay for my coffee when we’re in town. But you don’t need to.”  
“Okay,” you answer hesitantly, looking up to him, “tomorrow at ten sharp.”  
“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.” Juice drops on the couch and asks, pointing on your legs: “What happened?”  
“A car accident crashed my left leg. The knee is shaky, instable and my ankle is rigid. I can’t strain much weight on my knee. Twenty pounds, that’s it. So I need the crutches to walk.”  
Juice nods thoughtfully, watching your left leg closely. Not much to see because you wear long jeans, but everyone does this.  
“Do you have money?”  
“For the crutches? And a new cell phone?”  
“Yeah.”  
You don’t answer immediately, shaking your head: “I’ll buy the cheapest, they’ll do.”  
“Uh, no. We’ll figure something out.”  
“What? Giving me credit? Collecting money in your motorcycle club tonight?”  
“Yeah. Maybe. I’ll tell you tomorrow. So, where’s the wheelchair? I guess you’ll need it tonight.”  
“I do. In the bedroom, but I can ...”  
“Crawl there? No. I’ll get it.”  
He stands up, gesturing between the two doors and you sigh: “Left.”  
“Thanks.”  
Seconds later he’s back with your crappy wheelchair, the thing you hate most in the whole world. Right after your crutches, thugs who stole crutches, pity and sushi.  
Juice takes a pen and a piece of paper out of his vest and starts writing, handing you his and Kips phone number.  
“If you need something, call me. Or Half-Sack, uhm, Kip.”  
“Thanks again. A thousand times.”  
“You’re welcome. So, I’ll head back to the club house. Do you need something before I leave?” He asks, gesturing to your apartment door.  
“No, it’s okay. See you tomorrow, Juice.”  
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”  
He gives you a broad smile and leaves. The door clicks and you’re alone with your wheelchair and your thoughts. Why is this guy so nice to you? He’s stunning and maybe he has a girlfriend, a family. Every other guy had dropped you at your door, without thinking any farther; even Kip would’ve only dropped you at your door. But not he.


	2. The Bond Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some shopping.

9:57 a.m. Saturday morning. 12 hours after meeting Juice. You can’t believe that a guy knowing you for only 12 hours will care enough to give you a lift. So you sit in your wheelchair in front of your apartment door, watching the street. He won’t come for sure. After sleeping a few hours he’ll surely have realized that your life his none of his business and ...  
A silver, old Volvo estate stops at the sidewalk and you recognize Juice behind the steering wheel. He’s actually here. And he’s on time.  
“Morning,” he greets, smiling his broad smile, as soon as he leaves the car, taking his sun glasses off.  
“Good Morning,” you answer, not able to hold a smile back.  
He towers over you, cocking his head to the side, watching you closely: “You look much better than yesterday. Shock’s over, right?”  
“Yeah. Thank you again for ... everything.”  
“Ah, don’t mention it. Ready for takeoff?”  
You nod and roll to the car, open the passenger door and get in. Juice takes the wheelchair, folding it and placing the damn thing in the big trunk.  
“So,” he says seconds later, while fastening his seat belt, “where do we buy crutches?”  
“At Carter’s & Deen’s, Moraga Street.”  
“Okay. That’s nearby Janie’s Coffee Corner, right?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Wanna have breakfast there? Or at least a cup of coffee?”  
“I’d love to. Thanks.”  
“Stop thanking me permanently. It’s okay.”  
He starts the engine, checking the empty street and hits the gas, while handing you an envelope.  
“What’s that?” You ask and he chuckles: “Donated money for a cell phone and crutches. I spent the evening bothering all members and some old ladies. Gemma, she’s the president’s old lady, gave me 50 bucks after hearing your story.”  
“Oh, my god,” you whisper, opening the envelope and counting 265 Dollars. “You’re crazy! I mean, that’s crazy!”  
“Solves some problems, right?”  
“Yeah. I don’t know how ...”  
“No thanks anymore until we’re back at your apartment, okay?”  
He winks and you give him a short nod: “I’m speechless. Sorry.”  
“Yeah, but it won’t last longer than a few minutes, so it’s okay.” His grin is adorable and you have to laugh. 

About 15 minutes later he parks the car in a side street. No chance for a parking place in Moraga Street, as ever. With the bus and your wheelchair you need about an hour to drive here – you have really no idea why he does this and how to thank him. You watch in the outside mirror how he unloads the wheelchair and comes to the passenger side. With a nearly elegant movement you get out of his car, placing yourself in the chair. Feet on the footrests, your backpack placed over the handles and you’re ready.  
“Uhm,” Juice says, locking the car, “do you want me to ... uhm ... push?”  
He makes a gesture to the handles and you shake your head: “I can do this by myself as long as there are no stairs. I’m a big girl, period.”  
You give him a smile and show him your biceps which makes him laugh: “Yeah, I noticed. Okay, then, let’s buy some crutches to get you out of this monster truck you’re driving.”  
You drive on the sidewalk, Juice walking to your right. The shop is a block down the road and the streets are already crowded. Where were all these guys yesterday evening, huh?  
Buying new crutches (and a new cell phone at a phone house) is no big deal, managed in less than 20 minutes.  
“What now?” He asks. “Bringing the monster truck back to my car and go for some coffee? Grab some coffee with the monster truck? Or do you wanna have a big breakfast? Are you hungry?”  
“I am. What about you?”  
“Yeah. Like a fucking wolf pack.”  
“So then ... pancakes with maple syrup, mixed berries and cream at Janie’s it is, right?”  
“Perfect. With or without the monster truck?”  
“Without, please, if you don’t mind walking back to your car first.”  
“I don’t mind at all, Y/N. Let’s go.”

You feel much better being able to walk by yourself again, you’re used to the crutches. Nobody stares because a lot of people used crutches before, everyday you can see people with crutches after sport accidents or something similar. A young woman in a wheelchair is always stare and gossip material and you hate this. Juice smiles at you while you change wheelchair against crutches, waiting on the sidewalk for you to be ready to hobble along. Standing beside him you feel a little bit more equal, stronger again. Once more he adapts his tempo on yours and you manage your way to the crowds with high concentration. Being disabled on crowded streets is always a pain in the ass. But Juice is patient, he’s in no hurry. Finally you sit in a booth at Janie’s, nipping at a cup of milk coffee, while waiting for your pancakes to be served by Josephine, your waitress with the big, hearty smile.  
“Oh, by the way,” Juice says, taking your hand to shake it, “Juan Carlos Ortiz, mechanic and Intelligence officer, at your service.”  
You laugh, shaking your head: “Y/N Y/L/N. Forced Monster truck driver and chick of the month at Levinson’s estate agency. At your service.”  
“Chick of the month?” Juice asks, furrowing his brows.  
“Yeah. Every month again. I’m the only chick. It’s just Mr. Levinson, his son and me, the hobbling answering machine.”  
“You’re pure gold.”  
“Tha ... okay, no, my lips are sealed. And you’re with the MI6? Or with the CIA? Intelligence officer sounds a lot like James Bond.”  
Juice grins and shakes his head: “No. Just at the club.”  
“Oh, good. I guess I’m a miserable cast for a Bond-Girl.”  
“No! Think of all the tricky weapons you could hide in your crutches or the monster truck! Everyone tend to underestimate you, right? That’s very useful for a Bond-Girl. In the end, you kick their asses and the world is a safer place.”  
“I appreciate this, really.”  
Josephine brings your breakfast and you sigh happily, causing the next smile on Juice’s face.  
“Enjoy, Bond-Girl.”  
“Cheers, Mr. Bond,” you answer, lifting your cup of coffee.  
After a few bites of pancakes, strawberries and cream you state: “I’ve never enjoyed shopping gimp requirements as much as I did with you.”  
Juice rolls his eyes, shaking his head: “You’re no gimp.”  
“I am. Sadly.”  
“Mhm,” Juice frowns, “I know you said it’s been five years ago ... but ... is there a chance it’s getting any better?”  
“No,” you sigh, “keeping the leg was the wrong decision. The doctors wanted to amputate on the middle of my thigh, you know? But I panicked. I was deadly afraid of losing my leg. I begged and begged and begged until I was hoarse. So they’ve tried their best. And now, five years later, I have to admit they were right and I was wrong. I could live a better life if I’d agreed in the amputation. I could’ve learned to walk with a prosthetic without crutches. I could walk longer, better, maybe without any pain. But shit happens. Now I have to live with my wrong decision.”  
Juice makes a painful face and shakes his head: “I’m really sorry to hear this.”  
“Yeah, I know. Everyone is sorry. So, the thing is ... I live very economically. I save a lot of money every month, as much as I can. I use to convince myself that this saving is for a really long big holiday or for my wedding or maybe for my funeral. Whatever. But the truth is ... I know on which bank accounts the money will be in the end.”  
“St. Thomas for the amputation. Carter’s & Deen’s for the prosthetic. Right?” Juice asks, helping himself to more maple syrup.  
“Yeah. I just don’t know if I’m brave enough to stay the course once I have enough money collected.”  
“You will be brave enough. You’re very brave.”  
Scoffing, you shake your head: “Don’t think so. I’m a coward.”  
Juice watches you thoughtfully for a few seconds while you place the raspberries and strawberries on your pancake in a heart-shaped form.  
“I’ve got a question,” he says and you look up.  
“Yeah?”  
“Is there a Mr. Bond? Or are you ... single?”  
“That’s a stupid question, Mr. Intelligence Officer,” you answer, giving him a sad smile. “Gimps are no big numbers on the single market. I’ve never met a guy who considered a relationship with my Gimp-me. Not even one who wanted just a one night stand.”  
Juice once again makes a face, staring thoughtfully on his pancake.  
“I’m not good at the sex thing anymore. I guess that’s the problem.” You state, leaning back and rubbing over your left thigh.  
“What make you think this?”  
You eat a strawberry with cream before answering with a low voice: “I cannot stand. I cannot kneel. I guess I cannot ride. I can do nothing you need a knee for. I’m slow and my leg looks terrible. I cannot be sexy anymore. I’m more a burden than an arm candy. I’d need a real deep from the heart gentleman. In the truest sense of the word, you know? And real gentlemen are rare these days.”  
“I see,” Juice says, biting his lower lip.  
“And once the leg is gone, my chances for meeting the love of my life are sinking from zero to absolute zero. So, maybe I just take a big, luxurious holiday in a honeymoon paradise and plan my funeral.” You try very hard but you fail in keeping the bitterness out of your voice. “I mean, I love my life, and I’m truly thankful that I’m still alive but ... yeah, sometimes it’s very, very hard to go on and pretend to the world that I’m perfectly good with everything. Especially on weekends like this, starting with a robbery and some helpless crawling on a sidewalk.”  
“Understandable. What about starting the next weekend with me?” Juice asks. “There’s a party at the clubhouse at Friday evening. Kip’s coming too, of course. And all the other guys.”  
“Can I think about it? And text you?”  
“Sure,” he smiles, eating the last piece of his pancake. “So, what’s next? A stop at a grocery store?”  
“That would be great.”  
God, you know this guy not a full day but if he gives you once more this smile you’ll _fall_ in love. And the impact will kill you. For sure. Shit.


	3. The door sign

**Thursday, 9 pm**  
_“You alright? Tried to call ya a few times. What about tomorrow?”_  
You read the message on your phone after coming home from an appointment with some of your friends. You catch yourself by smiling like an idiot. Juice tried to call you and he’s in sorrow because he couldn’t reach you. Three missed calls and a message and you’re sitting on your couch, acting like fourteen year old. Fuck. The fall started. You’re in love. Let’s wait for the impact.  
_“I’m fine, don’t you panic, Mr. Bond! Just a birthday dinner at a friend’s house. Forgot my phone at home. You pick me tomorrow? Oh, and thanks for caring.”_  
You send the message, not wondering as the phones rings a minute later.  
“Hey, Bond-Girl,” Juice says and you can hear his smile through the phone.  
“Hey. You good?”  
“Course. I didn’t panic, Y/N. I was just a bit worried. Don’t you dare forgetting your phone once more! You must be contactable at your missions, understand?”  
“Got it, Bond. Okay. I promise I’ll be better next time.”  
“Thanks. So, tomorrow? 9 p.m.?”  
“Okay. But if it’s a long way round for you I could ...”  
“It isn’t. I’ll pick you at 9. By car.”  
“Thank you. So, uhm, I’ve never been to a MC party before – is there a ... a kind of dress code?”  
“Sure it is. Collar and tie for the gentlemen, evening wear for the ladies.”  
“I see.” You can’t suppress a smile, knowing that he’s smiling too. “Don’t forget the cuff links with the poison arrows, Mr. Bond.”  
“I won’t, promise. Just wear what you want. Okay? It’s no big deal.”  
“Juice?”  
“Yeah?”  
You desperately want to ask if this is a date but you chicken out. As so often. You’re a coward. And it doesn’t matter if this is a date – what it isn’t. A party at a MC clubhouse is never ever a date. Juice doesn’t do dating shit. He’s too laid back and too much outsider to care about dating like good citizens do.  
“Thanks for the invitation.”  
“You’re welcome. I talked to Kip, ya know? He told me everything.”  
“What does that mean? Everything?” You ask, somehow breathless.  
“Yeah, everything. He spilled the beans. I know about the library incident and the day you told Jeff Jacoby he could go and fuck himself. In front of the class.”  
“Oh, my god! I’m gonna kill Kip!”  
“Why would you? He’s a big fan of yours. I guess he had wet dreams of asking you out but he was too shy to try.”  
You laugh and shake your head: “Kip had a girlfriend at the time. They were very sweet together until the day Kip discovered her big secret.”  
“Hey, wow! Kip didn’t tell me about a secret. What was it?”  
“Jeff Jacoby didn’t mind fucking himself, he chose to fuck Kip’s girlfriend instead.”  
“Uh, shit.”  
“Yeah. Kip beat the bloody hell outta Jeff and was expelled from school afterwards. That was the last time I’ve seen him until last week.”  
Even before you finished your sentence you hear the voice of a woman speaking to Juice: “Oh, here you are. Juicy, baby, Clay called. They need your gorgeous ass at the reservation. Pronto.”  
“Sorry,” Juice says with a little sigh, “I have to go, okay? See ya tomorrow.”  
“Yeah. Take care, Juice. Good luck with these Bond things you’re doing.”  
“Thanks. Take care yourself. No evening walk today, I’m not in town, so I’m not able to come for you.”  
“No, I’ll stay at home. Bye, Juice.”  
After finishing the call you smile at your phone like an idiot. Again. Could become a new habit.

~~~~~~

**Friday**

The way Juice’s walking at your side, hands in the pockets of his kutte, is so adorable – you could kiss him for being so patient and gentlemanlike. He offers help and gives you an encouraging smile every time you refuse.  
“Uhm, wait a second, okay?” He says as you reach the door to the clubhouse.  
“Yeah?”  
The music is loud and fast, you can hear laughter and many voices talking.  
“There is,” he nods with his chin to the door, “a whole bunch of more or less half-naked women. There will be a lot of make-outs. MC Parties are always loud and sexy. I just wanted to say that ... uhm ... don’t feel short. Or out of place. I want you to be here and all the others ... can go and fuck themselves. Okay?”  
“Okay. Thank you, Juice.”  
“Welcome. So, wanna have some fun?”  
“Yeah, of course.”  
He grins and opens the door for you. You hobble into the crowded room, stopping right after the door, waiting for Juice to lead you. Just for a second you wish you could take his hand. But the damn crutches prohibit this little wish. No free hand. And maybe bikers aren’t in holding hands anyway.  
He isn’t your date, so keep your greedy fingers to yourself, Bond Girl. Get a grip, goddammit!  
Juice leads to a table in the back and you smile as you see Kip’s already sitting there. In his company is an old man with an oxygen tube in his nose.  
“Hi,” you greet and Kip’s standing up, hugging you and placing a kiss on your cheek.  
“Y/N! Hi! Come here and take a seat at the support group table!” Kip smiles, grabbing your crutches and places you at his side.  
“Piney, this is Y/N, the girl we found last week on the sidewalk. Y/N, meet Piney, he’s one of the First Nine members and Opie’s dad.” Juice says, taking a seat on your right.  
“Hi,” Piney says, giving you a small smile.  
“Half-Sack, go, grab some drinks at the bar, okay? What do you want to drink, Y/N?”  
“Uhm, can I have a beer, please?”  
“Sure. One for me too. Piney?” Juice asks and the older man nods.  
After returning with the bottles of beer Kip starts talking immediately about old times, eliciting some laughs from all of you. Even Piney smiles. You concentrate on him and Juice’s warmth on your right, on his arm placed over the back of your chair. He sits very close to you and Kip’s coming closer with every story. You’re kind of trapped and shielded at once. All the other guys coming by only have a chance to wave at you. They’re sweet and caring, even the scary bald man asks how you doing and if everything’s alright again.  
“So”, Kip says after half an hour, “Juice told me about your bad leg and your plans on an amputation.”  
“Did he?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder.  
Juice nods, smiling, giving your shoulder a small squeeze: “Wasn’t a secret, was it?”  
You shake your head and Kip continues: “Hey, if you do this we could move in together. We could paint a big sign for our door: Welcome to our happy, loud and messy home. Half-Sack and Half-Leg.”  
You laugh and shake your head: “Messy? Nah. I’ll go with: Life is full of choices: Remove your shoes or scrub the floor.”  
“This one sounds more like J.C. Bond and his Bond-Girl,” Juice says and you have to laugh, seeing his eyes twinkle with amusement.  
“Yeah, that could be fun. Just for the sign at the door.”  
“Could?” Juice says, locking his gaze with yours. “No. It would be fun. Without a doubt.”  
Once more you feel his hand on your shoulder and you lean in his touch, instinctively. It’s like the world around you doesn’t exist anymore, there’s only him left. It’s the very unique feeling of great appeal. But ... shit. You’re interpreting dreams in a cold and sober reality. Pure imagination. Stop playing yourself for a sucker, gimp.  
“But Half-Sack and Half-Leg is better. You are no Bond-Girl. And Juice is definitely no Bond.”  
“Oh, we are,” you smile and Juice nods, pulling you even closer to him. A few inches more and you’ll sit on his thigh. “Why do they call you Half-Sack, Kip?” You ask just to change the subject.  
“The Iraqis tried to kill me but they failed impressively. I’ve only lost one of my balls. That’s it. Half-Sack.”  
“Sounds really painful. Sorry for your loss.” You can’t help but you have to laugh.  
“I appreciate your commiseration, Bond-Girl. Wanna have a look?”  
“No, thank you,” you answer – synchronically with Juice.  
Kip gives Juice a confused look while someone’s calling him. He gets up immediately, following the orders he gets. Piney stands up too, heading to the bar, leaving you alone with Mr. Bond.  
“Are you okay?” You ask, turning around a bit to face him. You’re so close to him you can smell his scent, leather, tobacco, aftershave. And it smells so fucking good. “You’re so close-lipped.”  
“I’m listening, that’s all. I’m glad you’re having fun.”  
“Yeah, Kip has ever been fun. Why is he bossed around by all these guys?”  
“He’s a prospect. No full member.” Juice smiles and goes on: “It’s a hard time to be on trial. But he’s doing well.”  
“I see. And you are a full member?”  
“I am. Every guy here is a full member. Except Half-Sack. He’s our only prospect.”  
You take a look around, watching all the beautiful girls dancing, making out, and flirting. “So, is a MC a kind of ... of swingers club? Or are they all single?”  
“No. Some guys have an old lady. Which means: They live a long term relationship or are married. Faithfulness included or not. This depends on the individual agreements like in every relationship.”  
You nod and take the last sip of your beer.  
“Want another?” Juice asks, gesturing to the bar.  
“No, thanks. I can’t drink until I’m boozed. I’m in desperate need of my walking abilities. I’ll have some water later.”  
Before he’s able to answer a drunk blonde in hot pants and a corset drops on his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck: “Hey Juice, baby. How’s my big, strong, favorite Puerto Rican doing?”  
“Fine, thanks,” Juice says, shoving her off his lap. “I’m busy with Y/N. Ask Half-Sack for some company, okay? Or every other brother.”  
She pouts at him in such a sweet way you could spontaneously throw-up. Fuck, she’s gorgeous and beautiful. And she moves like a damn goddess, like a Baby-Beyoncé. You try to go on distance, but Juice shakes his head, mouthing a “stay”.  
“Come on, buzz off. Tell Half-Sack it’s definitely the Bond door sign we go for.”  
“Pardon?” She asks, looking confused.  
“The Bond door sign it is. He’ll know. Okay? Go, girl.”  
She shrugs and leaves, while Juice is fumbling for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his kutte.  
“This is family, right?” You ask him and he grins: “Wanna hear about my family?”  
You nod and give him a smile, patiently waiting for him to take the first drag on his cigarette.  
“I wanna hear everything. Every dirty little story. I feel like an explorer seeking out new life and new civilizations, boldly going where no man has gone before.”  
Juice snorts with laughter, shaking his head: “I’m so much into Star Trek, you know? If I hadn’t fallen for you from the second I laid eyes on you I’d fall for you not later than now.”  
“Oh.” You whisper, somehow breathless. “Really?”  
“Yeah,” he smiles, pulling you closer. “I have a thing for brave, fierce Bond Girls.”  
You’re sitting somehow paralyzed in his embrace, watching him closely, alternating between awe and disbelief. The silence is growing bigger and he cocks his head, studying your facial expression.  
“Too fast, huh?” He smiles and you wake up from your numbness: “No, no, I ... I’m just ...”  
He grins, giving you a short hug and says: “So. You know who the Pres is, Clay, right? His wife, Gemma, is somehow the matriarch of the club. She’s got a son, Jax, that’s the blonde guy wearing the white sneakers. He’s the VP.” Juice points to the bar and goes on: “This one isn’t a well-fed version of Gandalf the Grey, he’s Bobby Elvis, skillful imitator of the King, and our treasurer.”  
You give him a smile, leaning into him and he starts caressing your upper arm while he goes on, telling the stories of his brothers.  
It feels so right, so good. You know that there’s no need for hurry. Everything will fall into place.


	4. The thing

One week later the next SAMCRO party lies ahead – a birthday party this time. You’ve met Juice every day over the last week, short encounters between work and biker stuff. On Wednesday evening he stopped at a grocery store and called you, asking if you need anything. You were nearly speechless, stammering something of bananas and yoghurt – and half an hour later Juice knocked at your door, bringing bananas, yoghurt and a chocolate cherry cupcake. He stayed just about 15 minutes, watching you eat the cupcake, smiling his fantastic smile as you offered sharing. He only took one bite to have a taste, stating the cupcake’s for you. After he left you cried like a baby, realizing how much you’ve missed someone so caring and affectionate in your life. And you haven’t even kissed. 

 

As you hobble into the clubhouse you’re greeted like an old friend. Once again you sit at a table with Kip and Juice and rotating members, girls and old ladies. Everyone is really nice and friendly and you ask yourself if Juice demanded that you’re treated with respect and manners. Kip once again starts some heavy flirting obviously not getting that there’s something in the air between Juice and you.  
“Oh, by the way,” Kip says after making some over-the-top compliments, smiling. “Did you get the letter from Angelique Lynde?”  
You nod, taking a sip of your beer.  
“Which letter?” Juice asks and Kip makes a dismissive gesture: “Nothing important.”  
“It’s an invitation to a class reunion in November, Juice.” You answer, giving him a smile.  
“Wanna go there with me?” Kip asks, taking your hand in his. “That’ll be fun.”  
“I don’t have any plans to partake at all,” you answer, staring at your hand in Kip’s.  
“Oh, come on! Why not? We’re showing these prissy middle-class fuckers how boring they are, giving them quite a show. And we could both say to Jeff Jacoby he could go and fuck himself. And maybe, if you want, we could give them an improved revival of the library incident – I love me some good bend-over-the-table sex.” Kip winks and smiles as wide as he’d invented a machine producing 36 megatons of universal peace per hour.  
“Kip ...,” you start, but you get interrupted.  
“Hey, Half-Sack,” Juice sighs, making a perplexed gesture, giving him a perfect “What the fuck”-face.  
“Huh? What?”  
“A word, Half-Sack. Outside. Now,” Juice says, not unfriendly, standing up.  
“I’m in a conversation with Y/N, Juice.”  
“Outside. Right away.”  
“Ooo-kay,” Kip answers slowly, giving you an apologizing look.  
“Back in a second, Bond-Girl. Do not abort the mission. Stay, will you?” Juice whispers at your ear and you nod.  
“Okay, Mr. Bond. Don’t tear him apart.”  
“I won’t.” He winks and fumbles for cigarettes and lighter.  
You watch Half-Sack and Juice leaving the clubhouse and you feel bad for Kip. It’s kind of unreal that there are two men showing interest in you. For years not one man cared enough about you to overlook your bad leg and now there are two good looking pals getting in a pissing match because of you. Or at least have an argument.  
After five minutes they’re back – you’re quite sure Juice played the member card. Kip has to back down because of his prospect patch.  
“Uhm,” Kip says, taking a seat again, repositioning his chair like half a mile away from you. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to badger you. And I didn’t know about the ... thing with Juice.”  
“The thing?” You ask, smiling at Juice who looks incredibly pleased.  
“Yeah.”  
“Kip, listen”, you state. “What I wanted to say before I got interrupted by this chest banging King Kong here,” you point at Juice whose eyes twinkle with amusement, “was ... I have a thing with Juice.”  
“After the library incident I’m surprised you live your things so private,” Kip answers and you give him a confused look, so he explains: “You two are not even holding hands. No kissing. How could I know you have an obviously very, very private thing?”  
“I’m a gimp. Life itself put the brakes on my things, and closed the blinds, you know? Plus: There’s a difference between getting caught in the library accidentally and willful exhibitionism.”  
“You’re no gimp,” Kips answers, shaking his head.  
“That’s what I tell her period,” Juice says, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Better this way, Half-Sack? Bond-Girl?”  
“Yeah, much better.” Kip approves, scraping on his neck. “Can I see a kiss too?”  
“No,” you answer, synchronically to Juice’s “Yes”.  
“No,” Juice corrects himself, giving you a smile. “We do our kissing things in private.”  
There’s a ton of butterflies panicking in your belly, so intensive you can’t breathe.  
“Really, Juice, I don’t understand you.” Kip states and shakes his head in disbelief.  
Just for a split second you fear he would phrase his lack in understanding of Juice’s attraction for you. But no, Kip isn’t a sore loser.  
“What do you wanna tell me, Half-Sack?”  
“Well, if I were you – and I don’t mean this disrespectful, really – if I were you I would give a fuck for the umphiest biker birthday party. If I were you I would be in a very private place with closed blinds, very secluded and very alone. Alone with her. Doing all the private things you two do only without an audience.”  
“Yeah,” Juice frowns, giving you a look, somewhere between question and amusement. “Now you’re mention it ... what do you think, Y/N? Wanna leave for a less crowded place?”  
“Juice ... I ...,” you look at Kip, who stands up immediately.  
“Private answer, I get it.” Then he leans over the table to you, whispering so loud Juice’s able to hear his words too: “Give him a chance. He’s one of the good guys.”  
“Thanks, Kip.” You smile and he shrugs: “If he plays you for a sucker, I’m still here, waiting for you.”  
Juice gives him an evil eye and Kip chuckles: “I’m out. Have fun you two.”  
He leaves and you stare at your thighs, waiting for Juice to say something. You close your eyes as you feel him coming closer. His warm breath is grazing over your ear, his arm wrapped around you.  
“Tell me, Y/N,” he whispers, “what’s the worst thing that could happen when we are ... alone?”  
“I don’t know,” you answer, shrugging.  
“Right. Because there is no worst thing. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop whatever we do. Being alone, kissing, cuddling – doesn’t matter. You don’t like it, we stop. That easy.”  
“That easy?”  
“Promise.”  
“What if I wanna go the whole nine yards and _you_ don’t like it?” You ask, thinking about the horrible look of your leg and your limited mobility.  
“That’ll never gonna happen, honey,” he chuckles, grabbing your crutches. “Wanna go?”  
You nod, taking the hand he offers: “My place?”  
“Of course. You can kick me out if I bug you.”  
“That’ll never gonna happen, honey,” you answer, enjoying his laughter. 

 

“Couch?” He asks about twenty minutes later, closing the door to your apartment behind him.  
“Yeah.” You feel shy and insecure – you’ve lived like a nun for the last five years. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper, hobbling to the couch and sitting down.  
“What?” He asks, turning the lights low.  
“I ... I’m so ... so damn nervous. I feel like I’ve got my V card back.”  
“Uh, so bad? I’m not that intimidating, am I?” Juice asks, smiling his warm, welcoming smile and takes a seat at your right.  
Shaking your head you take a deep breath: “No, you’re not.”  
“Relax, okay? We’ll just sit here, enjoying privacy and our thing.” He takes off his kutte, placing it on the back of the couch. “Wanna come a little bit closer?”  
You nod, scooting over, until you sit thigh by thigh.  
“So,” Juice grins, “tell me, did you lose your V card in this legendary library?”  
“No! Course not!” You can’t help, you have to laugh. “I lost nothing in the library except a little bit of my good reputation. They made a mountain out of a molehill. All the stories were just rumors.”  
“What really happened back then?”  
“We kissed. And maybe ... just maybe ... a little bit of petting. We were fully clothed when we get caught.”  
“Who was he?”  
You chuckle: “A Spanish exchange student. His name was ... Juan.”  
“You’re kidding.”  
“No, I swear. That’s the truth.”  
“I hate him.” Juice grins, taking your hand in his, intertwining your fingers with his. His pointer finger draws slow circles over the back of your hand, a gesture so small and sweet nonetheless cheering all the butterflies in your belly – not that they were sleeping, but now they’re getting really excited. You look up, ending the disbelieving stare at your hand as he goes on: “Kip’s story, by the way, included overthrown bookcases, the naked butt of a boy and sperm-stained carpeting.”  
“Uh, that’s a really lame version of the library incident. The stories I’ve heard implied among other things a broken table, roughly 25 used condoms scattered around the library and a police officer, called by someone who thought he or she overheard a murder.”  
“Jesus Christ,” Juice chuckles, “that’s really good. Who took your V card?”  
“You’re quite nosy, aren’t you?” You poke him with your elbow in the side, making him laugh.  
“I am. Who was it?”  
“Juan. But not in the library.”  
“Now I really hate him. He needs another name.”  
“Why?”  
“Because when you whisper my name in a very special gentle or begging way I can’t be sure you don’t think of him.”  
“Oh, come on, Juice! Juan is a thing of the past and ...” You laugh, squeezing his hand.  
“No. Juan isn’t. Juan is a thing of the very present, Y/N,” Juice states, turning your head gently to face him. “Okay?” He asks, so close that his lips touching yours while speaking, and you nod a bit, closing your eyes.  
He breathes you, for what seemed an eternity, before you feel his lips on yours. His scent envelops you, making you feel weak, but in a very, very good way. You melt. And you’re lost. The first kiss after five long, dark years is indescribable. It’s like you had partly forgotten what a kiss can spark and now, with a big bang, all the memories are back. You taste tobacco, beer and Juice – and that’s such a fucking perfect mixture you want to fill it in bottles. Deepening the kiss is done in a heartbeat, the feeling of his teeth nibbling on your lip makes you nearly cry.  
“Other plan: You could call me Bond. Or maybe James. It’s not exactly Juan but near enough.” He whispers at your lips, breaking the kiss for a second.  
You can hear his smile and you have to touch his lips, feeling this smile on your skin. It’s like an urge and you give in.  
“No,” you answer about a minute later, “Juan it is.”  
“Yeah, but the other guy named Juan ...”  
“Can’t remember. Did I ever know anyone named Juan? Don’t think so. You’re the first one, Juice. The one and only Juan.” You roll his name on your tongue, on your lips, tasting it like a piece of high priced chocolate.  
“Is that so?” He asks gently, licking over your bottom lip.  
“Yeah. Pretty sure.”  
You feel the weight of his hand on your left thigh, touching your most vulnerable, weak spot.  
“That okay?” He whispers, before causing the next spark with another kiss, a kiss you feel till your tiptoes.  
“Yeah,” you answer under your breath, covering his hand with yours. “It feels quite normal.”  
“It is normal.”  
“Thank you, Juice. Normality means a lot to me.”  
He withdraws a little to be able to look you in the eyes: “I know, Y/N. We can have a very private and very normal thing in here. Or at my place. Relaxed, leaned back, easy.”  
“And out there?” You point at the door.  
“Whatever you want. From nothing up to a stay away order by the Charming library you can have everything.”  
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”  
“Great. As long as you don’t abort the mission I’m really fine,” Juice answers, leaning in for another kiss.


	5. The whole nine yards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bond thing is getting serious. Sweetest smut. Be warned.

“This guy in the library ...,” Juice whispers sometime around midnight, kissing a trail from your ear to the corner of your mouth.  
“The guy whose name I forgot?”  
“Yeah. Exactly.” He chuckles lowly, moving his lips along your jaw line back to your ear. “Where did he have his hands in the moment you got caught?”  
“Uh ... I can’t remember. Why?”  
“I’m nosy.”  
You close his mouth with another kiss, holding on to his shoulders as you feel his hand sliding under your t-shirt.  
“Maybe here?” Juice asks at your lips, “On your belly?”  
His fingers are drawing circles around your belly button and your breath goes deeper, faster.  
“You know what? I guess his hands were here. You’re so soft, Y/N. Your skin feels so smooth and tender.”  
“No,” you whisper strained. “Further up.”  
“Huh? Didn’t you say you can’t remember, Bond Girl?” Juice answers while his hand caresses the upper part of your belly, making you change your position to give him better access.  
“Your first class interrogation techniques doing things to me, Mr. Bond. You’re quite brilliant.” You answer, feeling his silent shaking with laughter on your neck.  
“Thank you. So, tell me. Where did he touch you?”  
“Further up,” you whisper, moaning as Juice cups your left breast. “Yeah, right there.”  
“You sure?” He answers, “I need you to remember correctly.”  
“Yeah, I’m sure.”  
“I hate him,” Juice mumbles, “now I hate him even more than ever.”  
You grab his shirt to pull him into a hot and hungry kiss, enjoying the growing arousal, the craving for more. You’re longing for more, more touching with less clothing. You want to feel his skin on yours, exploring his whole form with hands and mouth, licking and love-biting your way over his glorious body. His palm rubs gently over the fabric of your bra and you feel your nipple harden, a reaction he answers with a low groan.  
“So, assuming that our thing here is a Bond thing, you know what will happen next?” He asks between tender bites in your lower lip.  
“No,” you answer, breathless, caressing his scalp. “Tell me.”  
Juice withdraws a bit, nodding to the door on the left: “Scene change to the bedroom. Ya know how she gets there?”  
“I guess he carries her. Right?” The insecure look you gave your left leg nearly breaks the magic, but Juice grabs your chin gently, turning your head to face him.  
“Yeah, right. That’s exactly what Bond does all the time.”  
“Isn’t this way too dramatic and ... over the top? Too classy?”  
“What? Carrying you to the bedroom like a gentleman? Really?” He grins, shoving you gently, and you shrug: “If you do it bridal style it is. What about carrying me piggyback?”  
“That’ll be fun for sure. But not very Bond-y. Bridal style in, piggyback out. Deal?”  
You nod and Juice stands up, towering over you, supporting himself with both hands on the back of the couch. The bulge in his trousers is impressive and you can feel his need to take off all the disturbing pieces of fabric separating his skin from yours. He comes closer, like he’s doing pushups, kissing you once more.  
“Here we go,” he mumbles, placing your arms around his neck, lifting you. Juice straightens up, looking you deep in the eyes: “You good, Y/N?”  
“I can use the crutches if I’m too heavy,” you whisper and he gives you a smile: “My bike has about 600 pounds and I can hold it.”  
“Yeah, maybe. But you don’t carry your bike in the bedroom.”  
“Worth a try. But today it’s your turn, Bond Girl.”  
He walks to the bedroom door and you shake your head: “I don’t know. It’s too romantic and not romantic enough at the same time, Mr. Bond.”  
“Too less rose petals and candles for being carried like this in the bedroom?”  
“Yeah, somehow.”  
“I don’t care. I like it very much. Could be my new favorite workout.”  
“Next time we’re gonna try the other way round: Piggyback in, bridal out.”  
“Okay. But for now we finish this first try, don’t we?” Juice asks, opening the door.  
“Yes, please. Juice?”  
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He sets you gently on the bed, kissing you again before turning around and heading for the light switch, turning the light on.  
“No ... no light, okay?” You whisper, shaking your head.  
“Why not?”  
You don’t answer, you just give a shrug. He knows why, no need to verbalize it.  
“Listen, Y/N. I’m a grown-up man, I’m not 15 anymore. I won’t make a face or some snarky comments or being turned off. I’m not offended by scars, stretch marks or what else you might find not completely beautiful on your body. I have pretty much scars by myself as you will see in a few minutes.”  
Not able to face him, you’re looking on the floor, shaking your head slightly. He sighs deeply and switches the light off.  
“Next time I’ll carry you piggyback in here, just as you wished. And we’ll have a small light. A candle or something like this.”  
“Okay. Thank you, Juice.”  
The bedroom is not pitch-dark but dark enough to hide the gruesome details of your injury. You wanna enjoy this and you can’t when he sees the ugly truth. The mattress sinks in as he takes a seat at your side. Intertwining your fingers with his he kisses your temple.  
“You good?”  
“Yeah. You?”  
“I am. Are you in the mood for the whole nine yards?” He asks lowly. You nod on his shoulder and he goes on: “So we’ll need a condom.”  
“Yeah. Do you have one?”  
“One? Ten. I’m quite optimistic.”  
“And ... uhm ... do they explode? Or at least have wires or any other useful Bond gimmicks?”  
“Explode? Uh ... no. That’s more a gimmick for Half-Sack, I guess. My condoms actually have no further use than protection.” Juice states with great seriousness.  
“What a pity,” you sigh, shoving him lightheartedly.  
“Do you think? Anyway I’ll make you feel good, Bond Girl. No need for gimmicks right now. Just try to trust me.”  
“I do.”  
“Okay,” he whispers, pushing you back gently, “Mission starts right now.” 

He’s as gentle and slow just as you expected him to be. You have a few more laughs and he’s doing great in relaxing you, making you feel secure and safe. He handles you with kid gloves, especially your left leg. It’s more about becoming acquainted with another than about earthshaking orgasms. It lasts about two hours until you’re both completely naked. Of course you’ve had sex before, but never ever so slowly, so luxurious and lavishly in its tenderness at once.  
Your alarm clock shows 4:07 a.m. as Juice whispers: “Y/N, baby, I’m constantly hard for at least five hours now. I can’t ... I’m gonna explode within the next hour if you don’t make me come.”  
“Do not abort the mission, Mr. Bond. Don’t you dare exploding!” You answer, circling with your thumb over the tip of his cock, making him hiss. “Wanna be in me?”  
“That’s a moot question, Bond Girl. Give me a condom and I’ll be in you before you can spell ‘Q’.”  
“A-ha-ha-ha. No thanks, Mr. Bond. You might hurt me. You’re pretty big.”  
“Uh, buttering me up? I like that.”  
A quick kiss later your skin’s getting cold after losing the contact to him. He’s warm, strong and absolutely bare, neatly shaved and smooth in a rough, manly way. God, you love his body already. You’re hooked.  
You hear him searching for his pants, a triumphant tone as he finds what he needs. Twenty seconds later the warmth is back, covering you from forehead to toes.  
“Spread your legs, sweetheart.” He whispers and you do what he wants – with your right leg.  
The left one – as ever – makes everything complicated. It moves so damn slow and you grab your thigh, pulling impatiently.  
“No,” Juice whispers, “wait. Lemme help you.”  
You feel his right hand on the back of your thigh, shifting it gently in a position which allows him comfortable access to your entrance.  
“Good?” He asks and you whisper a “Yes”.  
“The whole nine yards?”  
“Yes. Please, Juice. I wanna feel you.”  
The tip of his cock glides over your clit and you moan, impatient and eager.  
“Aaaah,” you sigh as you feel the pressure at your entrance, increasing with every inch he enters you, “yeah ...”  
Juice moans, in a low tone you feel deep in your belly, in every bone.  
“Fuck, Bond Girl, you feel amazing,” he states under his breath, making you smile.  
“You too.” You answer, feeling his breath on your face as he comes nearer, kissing you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I know you want to take it slow, Juice ... but ... as far as I remember you have to move, don’t you?” You tease, kissing his shoulder.  
“Give me a minute otherwise I embarrass myself. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Jesus Christ!”  
You caress his back, waiting for him to move. And as he finally does it is fantastic, it’s so damn perfect – until he uses a little bit more power, more speed.  
You gasp because of the pain in your leg and Juice stops, obviously able to distinguish between pleasure and pain.  
“You okay?”  
“It hurts, Juice.”  
“What hurts, baby?” He holds completely still, watching your face in the first, faint ray of sunlight, studying the expression of pain you can’t hide.  
“My leg. I’m sorry.”  
“No need to be sorry. Do you think you can wrap it over my hip? Wanna try? I’ll move it for you. Just say when I hurt you and I’ll stop immediately. Every time and always, okay?”  
You nod and he catches hold of your left leg above your knee, lifting it carefully and slowly, positioning it over his hip.  
“Good?” He asks, his left thumb brushing tenderly over your forehead.  
“Yeah.”  
“I’ll go slowly.”  
“I know, Juice.” You smile and he smiles back: “I love being balls deep in you and seeing you smile like this.”  
He withdraws, still gently securing your leg on his hip, holding his weight with his left forearm. He moans low and deep, pushing back into you, clearly enjoying every inch, every second. His gaze is locked with yours, and he doesn’t close his eyes, scanning your face for unease and pain.  
“Juan,” you whisper, licking your lips, “please ... don’t stop ...”  
“I won’t stop as long as you feel good,” he answers, speeding up a little bit.  
“Yes, oh, fuck ...,” you moan, as he changes the angle, hitting the sweet spot with every thrust now.  
You’re searching for a hold in the sheets, becoming louder, more aroused with every move. Nothing ever felt so damn good. Absolutely nothing.  
“Touch yourself,” Juice encourages you in a soft tone, “come for me, honey, please. Want you to come around my cock.”  
He’s got no free hand left, holding his weight with his left arm, securing your leg gently with his right hand. You’re as aroused as he is so you don’t need long to reach an orgasm, making your back arch against him, making you nearly scream, making you forget. You don’t care any longer as long as you can be with him like this. The sounds Juice makes as he fucks you through it are worth a wire, really. You would copy this sound on your iPod and listen to it every day. On loop.  
“Fuck, oh, fuck!” He moans in the moment his own orgasm hits him, making his eyes squint and his head dropping in the crook of your neck.  
Heavy breathing fills the room, fast gasping and the grey light of the very early morning. A full, rich and deep satisfaction covers everything, mixing up with tiredness and relief. Thankful for the relative darkness you wipe over your tear-filled eyes. He withdraws with a groan, places your leg gently on the sheets and removes the condom. After making himself comfortable at your side he takes you in his embrace, cuddling you.  
“You’re so close-lipped, Bond Girl.”  
“Jesus Christ, I’m speechless. That was ... amazing.” I don’t want you to go. Please stay. Forever. But that’s nothing you can verbalize. Way too early.  
“It was. I’d love a round 2, but I’m tired as fuck. I’m afraid of crashing my car into a tree if I drive home. Mind if I sleep here?”  
“No. Don’t mind at all.”  
“Okay, thanks. So, new plan: We cuddle a bit, I’ll take you to the bathroom and we’ll sleep. The piggyback thing can wait until later.”  
“You’ve got the best plans, really.”  
“Yeah. That’s true.” He grins and places a kiss on your temple.  
Are you happy? Wow, that’s what I call a moot question, honey.


	6. Mrs. Flintstone and the Kama Sutra

Waking up after midday is something you’re not used to anymore, having all-night parties seems to be a thing of another, long gone life. But now you did it, for the first time since forever. Spending the night with a man, falling asleep at his side. He’s still here, you can sense his presence. Kicking the thin blanket off your body you turn around, facing him. Juice’s still sleeping, lying on his belly, wearing just his boxers, the thin comforter crumpled to his feet. It’s incredibly hot outside, you can feel it, hearing the air conditioning working like crazy.  
Sitting up you reach for your crutches – Juice placed them at your bedside before he went to use the bathroom in the early morning. As silent as possible you get up, grab some fresh clothes and hobble in the bathroom to take a quick shower, brush your teeth – just doing your morning routine. As you’re ready to face the day you open the bathroom door, nearly hobbling into Juice who’s leaning in the door frame.  
“G’morning, Bond Girl,” he smiles, “Can I use your shower?”  
“Good morning Mr. Bond. Of course. Towels are on the shelf. I’m going to make us some coffee.”  
“Thanks.”  
You give him a smile, heading to the kitchen. He joins you about 20 minutes later, taking a seat face to face with you on the kitchen table. You shove the coffee pot and a mug to him, watching him helping himself to some coffee.  
“What now?” You ask and he nods to the door leading to the small terrace: “We’re having our coffee on the terrace, doing something like a good morning kiss and I’ll carry you piggyback in the bedroom, where I’m going to have some more kisses and the promised round 2 – in broad daylight.”  
“But broad daylight isn’t exactly a small candle.” You answer, watching him heading to the window.  
“Right. It’s even better. Is this your garden?” Juice asks, opening the patio door and placing his mug on the top step of the three step stairs down to the little garden.  
You follow him, the heat outside hitting you like a steam hammer. The terrace is located on the north side of the building, so at least you don’t have to sit in the merciless sunlight.  
“No. Mrs. Johnson from the second floor pays the rent for it. It’s hers. I only own the terrace.”  
“It’s cool. I like it. I have no idea of gardening, but I think she’s doing great.”  
“Yeah, it’s quite perfect, sitting here, watching the flowers and the whole scenery for free.”  
Juice brings your mug and his cigarettes out of the kitchen, waiting patiently until you sit on the stairs, the crutches placed at the balustrade. He takes a seat at your side, grabs his mug and sips some coffee.  
“Good. Better than Janie’s.” He states, giving you a smile.  
“Oh. Do you wanna have breakfast?” You ask, reaching for your crutches.  
“No. Way too hot to eat. Later. Now I just want a kiss.”  
You lean into him, sighing as you feel his lips on yours. It’s perfect. Just fucking perfect. He’s so relaxed, so casual – he makes you feel like you would do this forever. Like this is your 10.000 coffee breakfast on the terrace stairs with him.  
You want more in the second he finishes the kiss, seeing his promising smile.  
“I like this very much. It’s all cool and casual with you,” he smiles, vocalizing your own thoughts. “Just let me drink my coffee, smoking a cigarette and I’m all yours again,” he whispers at your ear, placing a kiss on your temple.  
“You don’t have to if you don’t want, Juice,” you answer, feeling shy and insecure again.  
Sitting beside this nearly naked, gorgeous, handsome man – he still wears just his boxers – is, on its face, really strange, somehow false and somehow a bad joke. He can have every woman. Why should he choose a gimp like you? It’s a question agonizing you for at least a week, but you’re not able to find a logical answer. The weirdest scenarios spun through your head – did he loose a bet? Is he a kind of con artist? But Kip said he’s a good guy and Kip has no reason to betray you.  
“Hell, I want.” He lowers his voice a bit, speaking soft and gentle: “We’ll figure out how we can have sex without you being in pain. Promise.”  
“I don’t know. You do like wild, hard fucking, right? Going page by page through the whole damn Kama Sutra? Every man loves that. I can’t give you this. Not even rudimentary.”  
Juice gives a shrug, staring for a moment in his coffee mug, searching for words: “Maybe we find a position where I’m able to fuck you hard and fast without you being in pain. If not, we’ll take it slow.”  
“But ...”  
“Shhh,” he shushes you, “my turn. Sex is always great, there’s no law saying it must be wild and ruthless. And even if there’s one: The outlaw biker and the Bond in me giving a fuck for such a stupid law. Our sex is none of anyone else’s business. For me it is a lot about being with you, in you, feeling you, coming in you, having you come with me. All this you can have slow too and it’s still fantastic. Am I right?”  
“Yeah. Thank you.” You stare at your thighs, at the long jeans you’re wearing despite the over 100 degrees in the sun.  
Juice lights his cigarette, inhaling the first drag deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few moments. You’re totally able to see how the nicotine kicks in, how his form softens for a second.  
“I like the view. Do you mind if we’re making this our headquarters, Bond Girl?”  
“What? The terrace?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I don’t mind, no.”  
He nods, smoking absent-mindedly. You wonder where he is in his thoughts.  
“Do you have plans for today?” You ask after he stubbed out his cigarette on a stone at his feet.  
“Nope. Tomorrow afternoon I’m expected to attend church, but until then I’m a free man.”  
“Okay. More coffee, Mr. Bond?”  
“No. More you.”  
He stands up, stepping in front of you and turning around, showing you his back. He hunkers down, patting on his shoulders: “Hop on.”  
“I can walk to the bedroom, Juice. The crutches are right here.”  
“Yeah, I can swim, too, but I don’t do it right now.”  
“That’s a crackbrained point, Mr. Bond.”  
“Stop arguing and hop on, honey. I wanna see you naked before nightfall.” He winks and gives you a smile over his shoulder.  
You sigh dramatically and state: “I’m not sure: Is this still Bond gentlemanliness or is this already more a Stone Age thing where a Neanderthal catches a woman and hales her into his cave?”  
“It’s Bond, Bond Girl. Unless you want me to call you Mrs. Flintstone.”  
You laugh and place your arms around his neck, wrapping your right leg around his waist, while he helps you with the left leg. You squeak with amusement when he gets up, carrying you inside, closing the patio door and heading to the bedroom.  
“I’ll go with Bond Girl, Juan,“ you say as he enters the bedroom, “because I’m really bad at powering a car by feet.”  
He places you gently on the bed, turns around and gives you a smile before crawling over you. You kiss him, tasting coffee and a hint of cigarette, while caressing his naked back.  
“Strip,” he mumbles at your lips, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “I want to turn to page 2 of the Kama Sutra.”  
“What’s on page 2?”  
“Spooning. Did you know that there are things like nursing pillows? Donna, Opie’s wife, used one. I saw this thing at her couch and she used it while breastfeeding Kenny.”  
“How the hell do you jump from spooning to nursing pillows in one sentence?”  
“I think about buying one.”  
“What?”  
“Yeah. To support your leg. I’m not planning to knock you up, calm down, Bond Girl!” He chuckles. “These pillows are long and quite bulky. If I turn you around on your right,” he immediately demonstrates what he means, turning you around and grabbing a pillow, “your leg may hurt. But if you put a pillow under your lower leg you’ve got a more comfortable angle. A ... a somehow medial position, to have your hip, your knee and your ankle at the same height. I guess it won’t hurt then. This pillow here is too small and too soft. See?”  
“What else are you, Bond? A physiotherapist?”  
“No. I just ... think a lot about your leg and watch closely what you do when it starts hurting. It’s a bit like a bugged motor. You watch, you hear and most of the time you know what’s wrong and how to fix it.”  
“You’re priceless.” You laugh, shaking your head and turning on your back again.  
“And you better be naked in less than two minutes, Bond Girl. It’s way too hot to have so many clothes on.”  
You swallow hard and start with your top and your bra, enjoying the admiring look on Juice’s face.  
“Pants, come on. You’ll see nothing but affection and respect in my face,” he whispers and you can’t help yourself, you start crying.  
Not really much, just a bit. Juice kisses the tears off your cheeks, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, while he opens the buttons of your jeans. You close your eyes as he strips your pants down, kissing your right leg in the process. In the moment you feel that your jeans is gone you open your eyes, seeing him standing in front of the bed, watching you.  
He smiles, eyeing you, before he hunkers down and starts kissing your left leg from your ankle to your knee. He kisses all the scars, caressing the ruined texture of your skin with his fingertips. Juice kisses his way back until he kneels between your thighs, placing a kiss on the fabric still covering your vulva. You never thought you would feel so beautiful and cherished again. But here he is, kissing you like you’re the most stunning woman in the whole universe.  
“See? I’m still here. Nothing bad has happened. As long as you don’t consider my boner as bad.”  
You shake your head, wiping the tears off your cheek.  
“Wanna try? Or do you have something other in mind?”  
“No. I’m good with spooning. I used to like it very much.”  
“We’re talking about the one-who-must-not-be-named again?”  
“No. He took my V card and my good reputation and went back to Spain.”  
“Did I mention that I hate him?” Juice asks, licking over your nipple.  
“Just one or two times.”  
He smiles and starts sucking, making you arch your back, craving for more.  
“Juice?”  
“Mhm?”  
“I think I want to be Mrs. Flintstone.”  
“Yeah? Why?”  
“I’m good with being haled in your cave.”  
“Great. You’re my first choice when it comes to haling someone into a cave.” He starts nibbling and your mind goes blank.  
“Juan ...”, you sigh and that’s quite everything you manage to articulate in the next four hours.


	7. Juice vs. squirrels

“Juice,” you sigh, inhaling the mild October air deep in your lungs, “I can walk by myself. There’s no need to carry me around.”  
You take a look over your shoulder, seeing Chibs, who’s carrying your crutches, smiling. He follows Juice and you out of the clubhouse, heading to the benches outside. Juice drops you carefully on a bench and you say “Hi” to Happy, Opie and Jax who are already took a seat there.  
“Hi,” the men greet and Juice places himself at your side, taking the crutches out of Chibs' hands.  
“Why does he always carry you piggyback?” Jax asks, nodding to the crutches.  
“I have no idea,” you answer. “I tell him every time again that I’m able to walk and in no hurry to get elsewhere.”  
“He likes it, lass,” Chibs grins, “guess it’s kind of foreplay for Juicy-Boy.”  
“I’m a knight in black leather. Carrying her around is the only gentleman thing I know. And as it is gentlemanly and very Stone Age at the same time I happen to like it.” Juice answers shrugging, and stretching his legs out.  
“Liar,” you smile, shoving him gently. “You're very gentlemanly.”  
“Would you please stop damaging my reputation?” He smiles, fumbling for a cigarette in his kutte.  
“Save a Harley, ride a biker,” Jax says and the men chuckle.  
“I prefer riding the other way round,” Happy states and you make a face.  
“Chin up, Hap. That’s just because your dick is too short. Not everyone is armed with solid 21 inches,” Juice says and after a second of silence the table bursts with laughter.  
You give Juice a smile which he answers with a wink. He’s pulling you closer, kissing the top of your head.  
“Don’t listen,” he murmurs at your ear, “and don’t you dare blowing my cover, Bond Girl.”  
“I won’t, uhm ..., what’s the name of this porn actor with the really, really big dick?” You whisper back, turning your head to kiss him.  
“John Holmes,” Juice answers at your lips and you smile: “Sure thing you know that. No, I won’t blow your cover, Mr. Holmes.”  
The joking goes on while you’re lowering your gaze, staring at the damn leg restricting you so much. Even after two months with Juice you feel inadequate when it comes to sex. He’s so slow and gentle, he’s trying so hard to make every night you spend together special and first of all pain free. The nursery pillow he’d bought actually helps a lot and he jokes occasionally about how he turned a pillow in an indispensable sex toy. He was so damn proud of himself and his glorious idea, sitting with his laptop on your couch searching the internet for a nursery pillow that doesn’t look like one.  
“That’s cute,” you’d said, looking on the screen, pointing on a pillow with owls on it. “Or this. I like squirrels.”  
“I don’t want to look at cute owls or huffy squirrels when I fuck you,” he answered, sighing.  
“What about skulls?” You asked, pointing on a black one with pirate flags on it. “Is this manly or badass enough?”  
He cocked his head, made a face and shook his head: “Nah. Don’t like it.”  
Finally he found a simple dark grey one that has only a few white stars on it: “That will do. It matches your bedding.”  
“If I buy sheets with squirrels, can I have the one with the huffy squirrels too?” You teased and he shook his head: “As long as you want to get properly fucked: Forget it.” 

“What’s going on in your pretty head, Bond Girl?” Juice asks and you look up, finding yourself alone with him.  
“I still think about buying the pillow with the huffy squirrels. For your bed. I could get you matching sheets for your birthday.”  
“Didn’t I ask you not to damage my reputation?” He smiles, leaning in for a kiss. “Your place is our headquarters, isn’t it?”  
“Yeah, it is. Will you stay for breakfast?”  
“Sure. Wanna stop at the video store for a John Holmes classic?” He asks, winking.  
“What? No!” You shake your head, shoving him as he laughs. “You’re pretty big, bigger would kill me, Juan,” you continue and he chuckles: “If this is a try to convince me to buy this squirrel pillow: Forget it. It’s miserable.”  
“I’m just complimenting you. Don’t be so wary and ungrateful.”  
“I learned from the best. Who said just last week I should go and buy me some glasses as I told her how beautiful she is?”  
“I don’t know. Gemma, maybe?” You smile and he sighs in desperation, before standing up and reaching for your hand to help you.  
“Come on, Cinderella. The carriage is waiting.”  
“I’m no Cinderella,” you state automatically, grabbing your crutches.  
“You are. I guess she hobbled after losing her shoe, don’t you think?”  
“Nah. I’m more like the overeager stepsister, amputating my whole leg instead of only my toes.”  
“And given the fact that I’m more a bad boy than a well groomed prince I’ll go with the evil, overeager and wicked step sister.” He smiles, leaning in for a short kiss in the moment you stand steady.  
“Thanks.”  
“What about grabbing a pigeon on the way back home?”  
“A pigeon?”  
“Yeah. To sort out some peas and eat the damn beast later. Or we just buy some fried chicken. Whatever you want.”  
“I’ll go with fried chicken. I don’t like pigeons.” You say, hobbling to Juice’s car.  
He chuckles, while opening the door for you: “They are birds like owls. Where’s the difference?”  
“The difference is as huge as the cock of Mr. Holmes. Owls are a whole other league.”  
“Jesus Christ, Y/N. Some day in the future we're gonna watch a Holmes movie so you at least catch a glimpse of what you’re talking about.”  
“Okay. We're gonna watch a Holmes movie. While laying in some squirrel bedding.” You state, keeping your face straight.  
Juice laughs, a full body laugh, closing the door, going around the car and taking a seat behind the steering wheel, still uncontrollably chuckling.  
“Y/N?” He says, wiping some tears out of his eyes, shaking his head.  
“Juan Carlos?” You wait patiently for him to speak again, to stop being so damn amused.  
Juice places his hand gently on your left thigh, leaning in for another kiss.  
“I love you,” he whispers at your lips, “I really and truly love you.”  
“I love you, too,” you answer, feeling like the luckiest woman on earth.  
The luckiest woman, as you notice for yourself. Not the luckiest gimp. 

 

It’s late evening when Juice turns you around carefully, positioning you on your belly. He grabs the nursery pillow, embracing your waist and lifting you up. He stuffs the pillow under your hip, making sure you’re laying comfortable, turning special attention on your leg.  
“What are you doing, Juice?”  
“I’m taking you from behind. That’s okay?” He whispers, kissing a trail from your shoulder over your spine.  
“Yeah.”  
“If you’re in pain you’ll tell me and I’ll stop.”  
“I know, Juice.” You answer, spreading your legs a bit more, positioning your left leg in an angle you think it won’t hurt.  
You hear the rustling of the condom wrapping, smiling as Juice moans impatiently. Closing your eyes you relax, letting him do all the work, as you’re forced of the circumstances. The feeling as he enters you from behind is so good that your hips thrusting back involuntarily, causing a sharp pain in your bad knee.  
“Don’t move, baby,” Juice whispers. “You’ll hurt yourself. Lemme do my job. I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”  
He starts slowly, as ever, slowly in, slowly out, lazy waves of pleasure on a beach of golden satisfaction.  
“Y/N?”  
“Mhm? Don’t stop, Juice, it’s perfect.”  
“Won’t stop, no. Just ...,” he takes a deep breath, his voice revealing his arousal from word to word. “I’ve been tested last week. I’m clean and I know you are clean too. Is there a chance to ... to get you on the pill so we could forget the condoms? I really want to fuck you bare, baby.”  
Slowly in, slowly out. Once more, again, again. The waves getting higher and you know you’ll lose the ability of thinking straight in a few minutes.  
“God, Juice, that’s so good,” you moan, barely able to concentrate.  
“It would be even better to feel me without the goddamn rubber on my cock, don’t you think, Bond Girl?”  
“Yeah. But I ... I can’t take the pill. Too risky. Because of Throm ... oh my god! Juice! ... Thrombosis. I ... I have to ... Please, Juice, more, faster, please!”  
He obliges and his breathing gets heavier, his voice gone thick as he asks: “You have to what?”  
“Come, first of all,” you moan, smiling, “please, oh my god!”  
You bite on your fist as you feel Juice's fingers reaching around you, stimulating you, taking you higher and higher. He fucks you hard and fast now and you notice that you aren’t in pain. Your leg doesn’t hurt in this position and Juice is enjoying your wildest ride together just as much as you do. He’s panting, one hand digging in your hip, holding you, making sure you’ll go nowhere without his consent. You feel your orgasm building, fast and irresistible.  
You’re coming with his name on your lips, feeling him following you just a few seconds later, feeling your pussy milking his cock. His hand thuds on the mattress right in front of your nose, the weight of his pelvis pressing you deeper into the pillow. You feel his sweaty skin on your thighs, your ass, your spine, his gentle kisses on your shoulder blade.  
“That was amazing,” he whispers breathlessly and you nod: “God, yeah. Thanks, Mr. Bond.”  
“Welcome. I wanna stay in you, you know? As long as it’s possible.” He sighs while pulling back and removing the condom.  
“I know, Juice. I’ll get an IUD, if this is okay for you?”  
“Of course it is. It’s your body, baby. If you don’t want this we’re gonna use condoms as long as you want. I’ll never ask again.”  
“No. I want an IUD.”  
“Thanks, honey.” He says, and teases after a short pause: “Want me to collect money for the IUD at the clubhouse?”  
You chuckle and shake your head: “No, unless you want to fuck me in squirrel beddings on an owl pillow, Mr. Bond.”  
“I’m afraid I’m not getting hard with squirrels surrounding me.”  
“Let that be my worry. I’m sure I will get you hard and throbbing in no time, even in Hello Kitty beddings.”  
“Uh, please, I’ll do everything for some Star Trek sheets,” Juice pleads, taking you carefully in his arms, checking on your leg routinely.  
“Juice?”  
“Mhm?”  
“Tomorrow I’m gonna make an appointment to get an IUD. Would you mind driving me there?”  
“That’s a moot question.”  
“Okay, thanks. Do you think I could have an IUD with little squirrels on it?”  
Juice chuckles, placing a kiss on your forehead: “You’re killing me, woman.”  
“Only if you’re consenting in squirrel beddings for your coffin.”  
“I’m not consenting.”  
“Then I won’t kill you.” You state, earnestness in your voice.  
“Thanks for that. I love you, Bond Girl.”  
“Love you too, Mr. Bond.”


	8. Very private things

Two years down the road you’ve moved in together – thankfully, because if you didn’t do it you would hardly see him anymore. The club’s stumbling into deeper trouble month after month. Seeing him beaten and bruised is a sight you slowly get accustomed to. A few weeks ago you found his gun placed on the nursery pillow while he slept like a log, dried blood from around the steristrip on his cheek crumbled on the bedding. You started to cry in an instant, afraid you’ll lose him to the club or to some asshole shooting him in the head. You’re afraid of the day he won’t come home anymore. Of the day he leaves his headquarters behind and changes allegiance. You still love him, so much that it hurts. But he changed. You feel the burden he’s carrying, even though he refuses to talk about the shit he’s dealing with. And now you’ll lose him, pretty sure. He’s gonna break up with you when he’s back from the run to the SanDino chapter, seeing what you’ve done, without his consent, without even talking about it. 

You start crying in the moment you’re awake enough to produce tears. Not because of the pain, which is more a kind of relief, proving you’re still alive, just because of the feeling of being alone, because of the fear of living your life without him. You try to have a look around, but your vision is so blurry you close eyes immediately again.  
“I was at the club house in San Bernardino when my phone rang. An unknown number. I answered the call and there was a nurse telling me that I have to come to St. Thomas. ASAP. My wife’s suffering from a serious complication.”  
“Juice?” You whisper, sighing deeply.  
The anesthetic sucks, causing hallucinations from hell, really. Every time again. That’s what you fear most about undergoing surgery. The brightest glimmer of hope in this whole bunch of shit is that this had been the last time you were in need of a surgeon.  
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and goes on, his voice low and calm, just like he’s telling you a random story. Unusual for your hallucinations but you don’t really have a choice, do you?  
“My wife, I asked and she answered: Am I talking to Mr. Juan Carlos Ortiz? I was like: Yeah, you do. And she said: And you’re legally married to Y/N Y/L/N? Because this is what I have here in the medical records of Mrs. Y/L/N. Next relative: Juan Carlos Ortiz, husband. Inform in case of emergency: Juan Carlos Ortiz, husband. Is that correct? And I was like what the fuck? But I said yes, even though I can’t remember a wedding I played an important part at. Well ... So she told me about the surgery you have had and that it is a real pity that I’m away on business in fucking Canada right now. Just when your wife needs you so much, Mr. Ortiz, she said and asked if it’s not possible to fly home earlier.”  
“Juice ...,” you answer weakly, trying hard to open your eyes, not believing anymore that you’re hallucinating.  
“Shut up, Fake-Mrs.-Ortiz. It’s me talking right now.”  
God, he sounds as angry as he sounds worried, his tone producing new tears.  
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, searching with your hand for him, your eyes still closed.  
He gets what you’re up to and takes your hand in his, the warmth of his skin, his familiar hold comforting you.  
“You can be. I already sat on my bike when she ended the call. I drove half of the night, 400 fucking miles from San Bernadino. I didn’t even stop for a piss or a cigarette. Just to find you here like this. Passed out, pale like the Reaper on my kutte.”  
“I’m sorry, so sorry, Juice. How long ...?”  
“I know you’re sorry. You said that already. I arrived here around 2 a.m. Now it’s 5.”  
“5 a.m.?” You whisper, startled. “Which day?”  
“Saturday. I’m just ... I’m here now, okay? You need to rest, baby. Everything will be okay. I’ve talked to the nurses and the doctor. You’re out of the woods. And we’ll talk later about this little stunt you did.”  
“I’m so sorry, Juice, please, forgive me. But I couldn’t ...”  
“Shhh,” he shushes you. “Stop talking. Sleep. I’m here. Tara brought a camp bed for me. I’m right here, at your side. Wake me when you need something.”  
“You’re not allowed to sleep here, Juice, are you?”  
“I’ll do whatever I want. Do you think Unser will arrest me for staying with my girlfriend who nearly died hours ago? Most likely he’ll first of all arrest you for pretending to be legally married to me which is illegal in fucking 748 states around the world.”  
“I didn’t nearly die ...,” you mumble and Juice interrupts you: “You have no idea and no memory since you were out cold, baby, thankfully.”  
You shake your head a bit and continue: “Plus: There are only ...,” you stop, trying to remember the exact count of states around the world.  
“Shut up again, Fake-Mrs.-Ortiz. I won’t hear a sound until they bring breakfast in two hours. Got it?”  
You nod with closed eyes, smiling: “I do. Good night, husband.”  
Just hearing his voice is so comforting that you feel much better.  
“Good night, Bond Girl. I’m glad you’re still here. You gave me a nasty shock.”  
“I’m no Bond Girl anymore, Juice. Now I’m Half-Leg.” You whisper, fighting down the tears.  
“You’ll be forever my Bond Girl.” You feel his lips on your forehead, he’s kissing you gently. “I love you, Y/N. I still love you.”

 

Three weeks later Juice pushes your wheelchair through the doors of the clubhouse where you are quickly surrounded by members, Old Ladies and croweaters.  
“Look who is back from the dead!” Bobby calls, patting your shoulder gently. “Juice told us about your little stunt.”  
“Lass, you’re out of mind, aren’t you?” Chibs asks, “Getting the damn leg amputated without speaking to Juice beforehand is more than a little stunt.”  
“It’s my leg and my pain and my life,” you answer, smiling to Juice who is standing behind the wheelchair, looking so fucking proud of you.  
“He is your life, Y/N,” Gemma states, “And at least he should’ve been informed even if you didn’t want him at your side.”  
“It’s okay,” Juice says calmly. “We’ve discussed this for three weeks now. I’m good with her decision to take this road by herself.”  
“Furniture okay? Or do we need to collect money for a new kitchen?” Jax asks, winking at you. “I would’ve freaked out, turning the house into chopped pieces.”  
“Me too,” Happy nods. “A lot of houses probably.”  
“Good to know,” Tara mumbles, poking Jax in his side and gives you a smile.  
“No, nothing’s broken.” Juice smiles, taking your hand in his.  
“Except faith, I guess.” Gemma says, still looking disappointed.  
You clear your throat and shrug: “I hope he’ll forgive me.”  
Juice gives you an amused look and makes a face then, playing the wishy-washy-card.  
“What now?” Tig asks, nodding to your stump.  
“I have to wait a few weeks until everything is perfectly healed. By the time it’s at the final size – it will detumesce some more – we can take the measurements for the prosthetic. I’m quite positive that in two or three months I won’t need the monster truck anymore. Or the crutches.”  
“Congrats,” Chucky says, waving with his own prosthetics, “Welcome to the club.”  
“I guess it’s hard work learning to walk with a prosthetic,” one of the croweaters says and Juice smiles: “And that’s not the only thing she’ll have to learn.”  
“Juice!” You hiss, boxing him gently in his belly.  
“What else does she have to learn?” Chucky asks innocently while the men start chuckling.  
“How to ride bitch on a bike,” Juice says and Gemma adds dryly: “And how to ride a biker like a bitch.”  
You see Juice’s wide grin and lose it. You laugh. It’s a deep from the heart laughter, happy and free. Everything’s gonna be alright, very soon.  
“Not like a bitch,” Juice says, hunkering down to be on eye level with you. “More like a Bond Girl.”  
“Or like Mrs. Bond.” You smile and he nods: “Or like Mrs. Bond, Mrs. Ortiz.”  
“What?” Jax asks, stepping closer. “What did you say to her? Mrs. Ortiz?”  
“She fake-married me. And that’s a topic we’re not ready discussing.” Juice smiles, not breaking the eye contact to you.  
“We’re not?” You ask, frowning.  
“Mhm-mhm,” Juice answers, “But that’s our very private thing, right?”  
The crowd around you leaves you tactfully alone, trying their best to pretend not to eavesdrop.  
“I love you, did I mention this?”  
“Not in the last 30 minutes. And I like to hear it later again. While we’re doing our very private things on a nursery pillow we soon won’t need anymore, right?”  
“So to speak a farewell performance for the pillow?”  
“Yeah, if you want. Tomorrow morning I’ll throw it into the garbage can.”  
“Why? We could ... store it.”  
“No way. I’m getting a boner every time I see it.” He winks and whispers: “And buying a new one, maybe next year – that’s also a very, very private thing, isn’t it?”  
He leans in for a kiss and you can’t do nothing but cry a little, thankful for finding a man who loves you this much as Juice does. You two are close again, like back then. So you may have lost your leg, but you keep Juice forever.


	9. Epilogue

“Juice?” You whisper in the darkness of your bedroom, knowing he isn’t asleep.  
The phantom pain plagues you when it’s rainy outside and today was a very rainy day, depressing and grey.  
“Bond Girl?” He whispers back, placing his hand immediately on your stump, massaging it.  
He knows exactly that it hurts, that you can’t sleep because of the pain.  
You needed nearly a year to allow him touching you there and you cried the first few times he placed his hand on your stump. Meanwhile you’re used to it. You’re used to the cuddling Juice loves so much, used to fall asleep in his arms, used to have him at your side wherever you go, hand in hand, no crutches, no wheelchair.  
You’re married for a year now and nothing has changed, except the fact that Juice is actually ready to settle down. He retires step by step from the club, having his home and family with you.  
“Remember our midnight conversation sometime last month?”  
“Yeah. What’s on your mind?” He kisses your temple, pulling you even nearer, placing your stump on his thigh.  
“I ... listen, Juice, if we have a baby and ... and he or she cries at night ... you will have to get up and have a look. By the time I’m ready fixing my leg the whole street is awake. And if I use the crutches I can’t carry the baby. It’s all up to you and ... and I don’t know if ...”  
“No one has to get up when our little one cries, sweetheart,” Juice answers gently, caressing your cheek. “Our baby will sleep here, in our bed.”  
“But ...”  
“No buts. He or she is hungry, you lift your shirt, nipple to mouth, silence. That’s it. And everyone is happy, especially the baby. This little soul spent ten months in your belly and heard my snoring at night – why would it want to sleep all alone in a damn nursery when it could be sleeping near its mom and dad?”  
“I’m afraid I can’t ...”  
“You can. You’re always afraid. And you’ve managed everything until now. You’re not alone.”  
You sigh, feeling the knot in your chest loosen.  
“So ... do you want me to ... to make an appointment to remove the IUD?”  
“It’s still your decision, Bond Girl. I won’t make it for you.”  
For a few seconds the room is silent. Juice goes on petting you, kissing your cheek, the corner of your mouth.  
“Will I get the pillow with the huffy squirrels?” You ask and he sighs deeply, before he chuckles: “Yeah, okay. Just because I like you so much.”  
“Is the day I’ll tell you we’ll having a baby the day you retire completely from the club?”  
You feel his nod at your head and the deep breath he’s taking.  
“I know it’s for the better,” he whispers. “I’m gonna miss them like fuck, but ... yeah. I’ll quit the biker life to be a full-time dad.”  
“It is for the better, yeah. I’m quite a handful to deal with and if we’ve got a baby too ...”  
“Mhm,” he mumbles, pressing his lips in the crook of your neck. “Mind some practicing, Bond Girl?”  
“No, I don’t mind,” you smile, knowing you’ll forget the pain in your invisible leg when you have sex.  
You feel him moving over you and with a low “click” the bedside lamp bathes the room in warm light.  
“What are you doing?” You ask and he answers: “Get used to it. I wanna see you in the moment I knock you up. I want to remember the moment I create new life.”  
“But today ...”  
“That’s exercise under real terms. It’s a Bond thing, ya know?” He smiles down on you, bringing his mouth at your ear: “You’re so damn beautiful when I make you cum, when I fuck you. I want to watch you come undone, preferably every time we make love.”  
“Thank you,” you whisper and his smile makes you forget everything outside this bed. 

 

Half a year later you carry a big parcel in the kitchen, placing it on a chair.  
“What’s that?” Juice asks and you shrug: “Dunno. It’s for you. Mr. Juan Carlos Ortiz. Never heard of the sender. What did you order, Juan Carlos?”  
“Nothing,” he frowns. “I ordered nothing.”  
“Open it,” you say and take a seat.  
He lifts the parcel, shaking it, but it makes no sound.  
“It’s light.”  
“Yeah. I carried it from the front door in the kitchen, I already know that.”  
Juice sighs, taking his cell phone out of his pants.  
“What are you doing?”  
“I’m doing my research on the sender. What else?”  
You grab the phone out of his hand and demand: “Open. Now. I wanna know what’s in there. Maybe it’s a self-destroying message from the headquarters. Maybe M needs your help, Bond.”  
He gives you a confused look but he complies. He takes his knife and cut the tape, open the cardboard box carefully.  
“Oh, my fucking god!” He whispers, taking out the content of the parcel. “Really? No shit?”  
“Yeah,” you nod. “No shit.”  
Juice leans back in his chair, speechless, staring on the nursery pillow with the huffy squirrels in his lap.  
“I’m gonna be a dad.” He whispers and you see how damn happy he is, how awestruck, how touched.  
“Yeah. You’re gonna be a dad. The best one in the world.”  
“Of course.” He smiles, absent-mindedly petting over the huffy squirrels.  
“We’re already in the 10th week, Juice.”  
“You’re ten weeks pregnant?” He asks, squinting, swinging between excitement and being offended. “How long do you know it?”  
“Eight weeks. I knew it in the same night you made me a mom. It felt different, you know? I thought I hallucinated but ... I made a note the next morning about the things I felt, about the things that were different. And then I missed my period.”  
“How do you feel, baby?” He asks, coming closer, kissing you.  
“I’m happy. Truly, deeply happy. And that’s your entire fault.”  
“Tell me about the night, honey, please.” He begs with a smile and as ever, you can’t resist him.  
“Okay,” you answer. “Take your squirrel pillow and follow me in the bedroom. I’m tired as fuck, I need to lie down and take a nap after telling you the story about how you knocked me up.”  
“You’re tired? In the middle of the day?”  
“That’s pregnancy, Juice. Get used to it.”  
You wink and head off to the bedroom, hand in hand with Juice. In the corner of your eye you see a tear on his cheek and you know you did everything right.


End file.
